


Let Sleeping Cats Lie

by Lazy8



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Gen, Humor, gone horribly right, prank backfire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:32:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lazy8/pseuds/Lazy8
Summary: In which Mikkel is a put-upon babysitter, and his attempts to get his charges out of his hair only make things worse.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PurpleWyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleWyrm/gifts).



> The state of the world lately has been making it really hard for me to write silly things, but I did my best. I hope it is to your satisfaction.

"So, um… is there anything else I can do to help?"

Mikkel didn't even try to conceal his sigh of exasperation. Being relegated to the most thankless, boring tasks on the crew was bad enough, but the thought that he was hardly ever needed as a medic, the _one_ capacity in which he was indispensable, and everything else in his job description could just as easily be handled by the stowaway civilian they'd picked up by accident… well. It tended to grate on one's patience, especially when said civilian routinely _insisted_ on helping with said job.

"No, Reynir, I have everything quite under control." As a matter of fact, it was far easier to string up the clothesline with Reynir _not_ helping—the Icelander wasn't used to working with him, and they constantly got in each other's way.

"Oh." Reynir slumped where he stood, looking dejected. Mikkel sighed.

"Though, I can think of one thing you can do to help." It might have been a long shot, but if it would stop Reynir from moping…

"Yes?" He perked up immediately, an eager gleam in his eyes, and Mikkel knew right away he had done the right thing.

"See if you can't train the cat a bit." He gestured to the Kitty, who was currently busy burying herself in his nice clean laundry. With luck, he would be able to get _both_ of them out of his hair.

"Sure!" Before Mikkel had even finished talking he was scooping the little monster out of the laundry basket; she let out a startled "Miu!" as his hands closed around her. Mikkel smirked. All in a day's work.

* * *

"Hey, Mikkel?"

He fumbled a clothespin, and very nearly swore. He hadn't even finished hanging up half the basket, and he _thought_ he'd given Reynir plenty to keep him occupied; what did he want _now?_

"What do you think I should teach her?" he continued, oblivious to the exasperation he was causing the poor, put-upon medic. "I mean, I thought you might like it if I could train her to bring you clothespins and stuff, but maybe—"

"How to keep us safe from _trolls_ , Reynir." How was it that the least capable person managed to land himself in the most dangerous situation without even trying? " _Any_ cat is an asset on this mission, but a well-trained one would be _very helpful_ to us."

"Oh. Oh! Okay, then!" And Reynir ran off again. Mikkel was just about to (finally) get back to his laundry, when he did a double-take and noticed that the cat had been on Reynir's head the whole time.

* * *

"Um… Mikkel?"

"Reynir, I really can't talk right now." He stirred the pot once more and took a quick glance at the sun; thanks to _someone's_ muddy pawprints on an overlooked jacket, he'd been late finishing the laundry, and had been frantically scrambling to get dinner ready before the others got back because he did _not_ want to deal with Sigrun on an empty stomach. "If you have another question, try asking Tuuri." Desk job or not, she was military too, and had to know at least as much about training cats as Mikkel did.

"I just wanted to ask if you had any more tuna."

Great. The Kicked Puppy Look. What had Mikkel ever done to deserve having to deal with someone so needy? Well, aside from the face cancer incident. And the shaving cream incident. And the—

…okay, he got it. He could be a real jerk. "Check the back of the tank. It ought to be next to the sack of vegetables."

"Thanks!" He ran off again, this time with Kitty… Mikkel stared. Was she dangling from the end of his _braid?_

* * *

"Mikkel, I—um, would you like some help with that?"

"No, thank you." He set aside Emil's jacket, which he'd been in the process of patching, and pinched the bridge of his nose as he mentally prepared for yet another one of Reynir's ridiculous requests. "What is it now?"

"Could I borrow a pot? Oh, and some soap!"

Okay, what?

"Is this for your… project?" he asked carefully. The tuna, at least, made sense as a reward, but what could Reynir _possibly_ be planning to do with a random piece of cookware?

"Please?" he said without answering the question. "I promise I'll bring it back."

With a sigh, Mikkel waved a hand and gestured him toward Tuuri's holey cooking pot—let _him_ find a use for the thing. "You don't need to give _that_ back. But I do want whatever's left of the soap."

"Thanks Mikkel, I won't let you down!" Grabbing the offerings, he dashed off before Mikkel could say another word.

* * *

That evening, there could be heard a series of ear-piercing yowls coming from the direction of the nearby stream.

Emil and Tuuri shot to their feet, Emil fumbling his flamethrower. Lalli let out an exasperated breath and ran out to begin his scouting duties somewhere nice and _quiet_.

Mikkel only facepalmed. He knew the sound of a feline in distress when he heard it.

"I don't know what Freckles is doing over there, but tell him to keep it down!" Sigrun snapped. "Before he turns himself into _actual_ troll bait!" She was glaring at Mikkel as she said it, as if she thought the whole thing was _his_ fault.

Really, would it kill her to send _Tuuri_ over to pass on orders for once? It wasn't like she didn't speak Icelandic, and it wasn't as if she had anything _else_ to do at the moment (unlike Mikkel, who still had to wash the dishes _and_ fold the laundry before it got dark).

"Reynir," he called as he pushed his way through the undergrowth, "I don't know _what_ you're doing, but Sigrun says if you don't keep it down you're going to—"

Mikkel stopped. He stared.

He wondered whether it was too late to turn around, walk straight back to Odense, and pretend this whole trip had never happened.

The first thing he noticed was a long red braid dangling down from a nearby tree. Following the hair to its source, he found Reynir clinging upside-down to one of the lower branches (but one that was still considerably far off the ground, at that), his face sporting multiple claw marks and a pleading expression.

The _next_ thing Mikkel noticed was the ball of orange-and-white fluff still small enough to fit in the palm of his hand that was hissing and spitting at the base of the tree.

Still upside-down, Reynir met his eyes. "Um… help?"

Sighing, Mikkel bent to pick up the kitten, who nevertheless managed to scratch him right through two layers of clothing before he managed to stuff her into his jacket pocket. That done, he turned his face to Reynir, who looked if anything even more scared than before—his grip was slipping.

…this mission was bringing him closer to throwing out his back than thirty-four years' worth of farm work. "Just let go."

Catching Reynir did not go nearly so neatly as catching Lalli had—for one thing, Reynir was bigger. For another, he was standing on uneven ground, and suddenly having his arms full of lanky Icelander caused Mikkel to overbalance on a slippery rock, at which point they _both_ went down.

He tried to sit up, realized his tailbone wasn't ready to forgive him just yet, and settled for turning to Reynir, who was rubbing his bruised elbow but fortunately didn't seem to have otherwise been hurt. After establishing that neither of them had broken anything, Mikkel turned to Reynir, propped himself up on his own elbow, and uttered the one word that had been in his head ever since this whole fiasco had started:

"Explain."

"Well, I was pretending to be the troll, and she—" The kitten chose that moment to squirm free of Mikkel's pocket, scamper up his torso (leaving a few _more_ claw marks along the way), and shoot back in the direction of the tank, no doubt to demand some food from Tuuri or Emil.

"…at least we won't have to worry about trolls anymore, right?"

Mikkel sighed, laid his head back down on the ground, and resigned himself to letting the little monster have her way with his laundry from here on out.

**Author's Note:**

> Partially inspired by some pictures I've seen of bears getting treed by cats.


End file.
